


Wicked Eyes

by originally



Series: Dissonant Verses [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-14 00:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3401054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen sees something he shouldn't in a dark corner of the Herald's Rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a [kink meme prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13275.html?thread=50637787#t50637787): 
> 
> Cullen being a voyeur. He watches as Dorian gets sucked off by some unnamed man in a dark corner of the tavern. No established relationship or anything. Cullen has never really thought about men, but he finds himself very interested.

The Herald’s Rest is busy tonight, Cullen thinks, as he weaves his way through the crowds at the bar to find a table. It's almost enough to make him turn tail and flee back to his quarters; what he came here for tonight was oblivion, not company. But he finds a spot towards the back, an empty table nestled between a clutch of rowdy dwarves and a group of chevaliers talking excitedly in Orlesian. Neither group pays him any attention. In fact, no one does. Out of his armour, dressed in simple leathers and a linen tunic, he looks like any other nondescript Fereldan soldier. It's the mantle, he thinks wryly. That’s what people remember.  
  
He sips his drink and watches the tremors in his hand where it lies on the table, never still. They're getting worse, he thinks. He's becoming a danger. Perhaps it will soon be time to shed the mantle for good. He closes his eyes and when he opens them, he sees him. At a table just across from him, half-hidden in the shadows of an alcove, sits Dorian, slumped languidly in his seat with a glass of wine in his hand. Cullen thinks it strange, at first, to see him alone. He's rarely seen Dorian without a crowd of admirers hanging on his every word as if he's some exotic wonder: dazzled stableboys and idealistic mages and sometimes even furtive, curious templars. He hasn't shared more than a chess game or two with the man, himself; he’s pleasant enough to while away an hour with, but Cullen finds his sarcasm and constant bragging grating in large doses. Still, maybe company wouldn't be too bad after all.  
  
He's a heartbeat away from getting up and joining him when he sees it: Dorian isn't alone. There, under the table, is a quick movement, a flash of sandy hair—there is a young man kneeling at Dorian’s feet. One of his hangers-on, it must be, though Cullen doesn’t recognise the man. He looks away quickly when he realises what he’s seeing, and his face heats. Maker’s breath, this is inappropriate. For one of the Inquisitor’s inner circle to—he should go over there and put a stop to this. He should. And yet, his eye is drawn back to the young man under the table, and Cullen’s cock begins to stir. The boy’s head is bent over Dorian’s lap. Most of what’s happening is hidden from Cullen’s view, but Cullen sees the way his head bobs up and down, and he can imagine the rest, can imagine the wet slide of Dorian’s cock between this boy’s lips. It must feel good: the slick heat of his mouth, perhaps the swirl of a clever tongue, the light scrape of teeth—  
  
No. By the Maker, what is wrong with him? He feels hot all over, itchy in his own skin. He’s never been one to fantasise about other men. He forces himself to look away, but now it’s worse, because he’s looking at Dorian’s face and still thinking about the boy sucking him. Dorian is giving every impression of serene nonchalance and unflappable control. His eyes are fixed on a point somewhere in the distance, the corner of his mouth is pulled up in an amused smirk, and he continues to sip his wine - but Cullen can see that his hand is under the table. Is it flexing in the boy’s hair? He can't tell with the way the shadows fall in that corner, but he imagines there might be a flush creeping up Dorian's neck. Perhaps he's biting his tongue to keep from making noise. Cullen has years of experience of that from templar barracks, and his cock twitches at the idea of Dorian losing his composure, unable to stop himself from crying out. Cullen presses the heel of his hand to his growing erection, stifling a noise of frustration and willing his cock to soften again. He's not interested in men. He's not. It's just the sex, not the participants. It's been too long for him, that's all. But there is something compelling in the long, elegant column of Dorian’s neck, the set of his jaw, the arrogant quirk of an eyebrow and those eyes sparkling with humour.

The boy’s hips buck and, Maker’s breath, now Cullen can’t help but imagine him getting pleasure from this. Somehow it’s never occurred to him before that it would be enjoyable to give as well as take. He wonders how it would feel to be the one on his knees in front of Dorian with his mouth stretched obscenely wide, if Dorian’s hand were in his hair instead, holding him in place, forcing Cullen to swallow him down—  
  
Cullen wants to run. He wants to run, but he can't. He's transfixed by the men in front of him and he's rock hard in his breeches. If he runs now, he'll only draw attention to himself. Almost without his permission, his hand moves to his laces and pulls them undone. It'll be quick, no one will see: just a few tugs and then release and then he'll move. He’ll leave. He'll tell Dorian to stop. He slips his hand inside his breeches and wraps it gratefully around his swollen cock.  
  
Dorian looks his way.  
  
Their eyes meet and there is a second of utter stillness. Cullen can't breathe. Emotions flicker in Dorian's widened eyes: fear, panic. And then he looks down, down to where Cullen’s hand is stuffed awkwardly into his breeches. His gaze snaps back up to Cullen’s and those twinkling eyes settle on amusement. He raises an eyebrow in challenge. Cullen knows his face must be red; he might burst into flames right here from arousal and embarrassment and that would likely be a kindness. Dorian shifts slightly in his seat, but he doesn't stop the boy and he doesn't take his eyes from Cullen’s and Cullen still can't tear himself away. Is this what possession feels like? His hand is shaking even shoved into his breeches.  
  
Fuck. He's already past the point of no return, so he fists his cock and tries to make this at least quick. His hand is too rough and he’s far too aware of all the small sounds he’s making, the rustle of clothing, the slap of skin on skin. Cullen’s mouth is drier than the Hissing Wastes. He licks his lips, and, across the way, Dorian’s eyes follow the movement. Cullen sees him swallow hard, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment.  
  
Maker, did Cullen do that to him? Dorian bites his lip and leans forward, pretence of nonchalance forgotten. There’s definite signs of arousal now. His eyes are dark and he’s looking at Cullen the way a starving man might eye a wounded halla. Cullen sees him twitch, perhaps a cant of his hips into the boy’s mouth, and he glances down, murmurs a few words that Cullen can’t hear. Encouragement? Words of affection? Cullen’s hand works his cock and he imagines long, clever fingers, the soft hands of a mage and a noble, instead of his own familiar scars and sword callouses. Amell, he thinks wildly. Of course he’s imagining Amell. He tries to conjure up her sweet face—but he can’t and he’s not and he knows he’s not.   
  
He’s close: there’s heat in the pit of Cullen’s stomach and pressure in his balls. He sees Dorian finish, sees it in the way he stiffens then goes lax, eyes closed and head thrown back and lips parted—hardly any effort made to hide what’s happening any longer. He looks like sex, like the very worst descriptions of Tevinter excess and debauchery, like something out of the scenes of bacchanalias that recruits had secretly read out-loud from well-thumbed books under the cloak of darkness back in Kinloch Hold, giggling and shushing and daring each other. Cullen bites his lip to stifle his grunt when he comes over his hand and his smallclothes, a hot burst of pleasure forcing his eyes closed.   
  
When he opens them again, the sandy-haired man has slid back up onto a chair next to Dorian. He’s not quite as young as Cullen had judged him to be. He smiles and looks at Dorian expectantly, but Dorian says something that makes him scowl and push back from the table to stomp away. Cullen tucks himself back in, wiping his hand on his smallclothes with some disgust but there’s nothing else for it. Dorian stands, with an expression like the cat that got the cream, and saunters over to Cullen’s table.   
  
“Commander,” he says, the picture of perfect composure, “if you have a moment, there’s something that might interest you in my quarters.”  
  
And then he’s gone, leaving Cullen to drop his head onto the table with a thunk and wonder whether he dares.


End file.
